


The House is Always Dead

by Liminality (TyndallBlue)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Body Horror, Dubious Logic, Mad Science, Magical Realism, PTSD, Skellig AU, Unethical Experimentation, Winglock, animal experimentation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-20
Updated: 2015-07-23
Packaged: 2018-01-25 21:51:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1663715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TyndallBlue/pseuds/Liminality
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“What do you want?”  The man repeats, the curly head rolling upright, disrupted flies falling to his lap with a snow of dust.  His eyes are crystal pale, eerily unfocused.</p><p>“This is my property, so I think I should be the one asking the questions, yeah?”  John clips, taking a step closer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> “Whatever tinges with a white colour has the nature of life, and the properties and power of light, which causally produces life. Whatever, on the other hand, tinges with blackness, or produces black, has a nature in common with death [...] The earth with its frigidity is a coagulation and fixation of this kind of hardness. For the house is always dead; but he who inhabits the house lives.”
> 
> -Paracelsus “Coelum Philosophorum”

This work is neither betaed or Brit-picked.  Feel free to point out any glaring errors. I feel strongly that I will write more for this, but my schedule is hectic and they will be sporadic at best.

* * *

 

 

     The house is nothing special, certainly nothing to be proud of. John is fine with that though. It had been cheap and it was quiet, a blessing compared to the congested crush of London and Harry's dusty couch that smelled of spilt beer and vomit.

   

     The other thing that John likes, aside from the price, is that it is furnished and both of these things were attributable to the previous owner having died there. An elderly man unable to even use the stairs in his twilight. The toilet installed in the living room is proof of that. With all the furniture that house already feels homey and lived in. It lifts the burden of having to go out to the shops and fill the space with little knick knacks. He has to admit that the previous owner seemed to have a rather macabre sense of decoration. The shelves are populated by several articulated animal skeletons. Above the hearth is a shadow box filled with birds pinned like butterflies. A scientist of some sort according to the realtor. John doesn't really mind. They would make good conversation pieces should he ever deign to have company.

 

     With relish he begins to strip the plastic from the furniture, casting months worth of dust in the air. It makes him sneeze and burns his eyes. He throws open the sticky windows in an attempt to clear the air. The cleaning and tidying is slow and painful. His hand aches from the unfamiliar grip of his cane and his shoulder still throbs fiercely. Go slow, the therapist had said, don't push youself, but he had been adamant about making the move himself. About packing all the boxes and loading the boot of the cab. He'd even refused Harry's help. The point was to leave behind everything, everything except his dignity, his clothes, and the Sig bundled neatly at the center of his jumpers.

 

     Groceries are the last to be unpacked, and it is with an unfamiliar sense of satisfaction that he swing the fridge door resolutely shut, casting the kitchen into cool evening light. It is as good a time as any for tea and he hums as he sets the kettle to boil. He stands at the sink window while he waits, gazing out over the backyard. It is occupied by weedy, dry, untended garden and beyond that a ramshackle shed. It leans precariously, the tin roof rusted nearly through in some spaces. The wood is gray and splintered with age, and the door clings desperately to the last surviving hinge. He anxiously readjusts his grip on the cane, turns off the hob when the kettle whistles, and begins the long limp to the dark building, weaving his way between the brown and withered rose bushes.

 

     The smell of damp earth and rotting wood wafts over him as he approaches, the gentle breeze sets the battered door to creaking. Cautiously he nudges the door farther open with the tip of his cane and peaks into the gloom. It's much larger than it appears from the exterior, filled with rows of tables and lean-to's of scrap wood. It looks like the collection of an aspiring craftsman. A rusting circular saw sits in a corner, swathed with cobwebs and wearing a respectable film of dust. On the surrounding tables are a hodge podge of eroding paint cans and tools in a state similar to the saw.

 

     He moves deeper, using the cane to swat aside the draping webs and brown vines that had begun their encroachment. The sparkling husks of blue bottles decorate the prolific webs and every available surface. Against a window a lone living fly hums and pings off the glass. The light is murky at best, turned soupy and thin by the layers of dirt caking the windows. In the farthest corner sits a sloped shape, draped in white. More furniture it seems. Gently he removes the filthy sheet, careful to not repeat the same mistake he had in the house.

 

     It's a lovely little vanity, possibly mahogany but it's hard to tell in the gloom. He runs his fingers over the scalloped edges of the mirror, trying to decide if he would be able to get it out on his own. With his sleeve he buffs the mirrors speckled gray surface. In the reflection there was a face that was not his.

 

     “Jesus fucking Christ,” he hisses, spinning and backing up, the fine edge of the vanity biting into his flanks. Hunched in the wedge of the wall and a table sits a man. He is long and lanky, neatly packaged in a suit that John would bet his next pension check was bespoke. Like everything else in the room he is coated in dust and webs, making the pale figure even more spectrely. In his russet curls, John could make out the irridesent winking of blue bottles.

 

     John relaxes some at the stranger's stillness, huffing a breath and letting a hand drift to his chest as if it would calm his racing heart. He takes another deep breath, unsure how to proceed when the stranger groans something that could be a laugh. His head lolls back exposing a marble length of throat.

 

     “What do you want?” The man croaks then sighs, upsetting a flimy web that shares his corner. One long leg shifts slightly, painfully, it's owner kissing as it drags a path through the dust. John swallows, unsure how to answer.

 

     “What do you want?” He repeats, the curly head rolling upright, disrupted flies falling to his lap. His eyes are crystal pale, eerily unfocused. John's tongue flicks out, wetting his lips. His back straightens, the set of his shoulders more confident.

 

     “I could ask you the same, mate,” he bites. The man cuts him off, words crisper and commanding.

 

     “I said, what do you want?” John barks a laugh at the man's audacity.

 

     “This is my property, so I think I should be the one asking the questions, yeah?” He snips, not pulling away fully from the vanity, taking a step closer. He takes the time to scrutinize the face in front of him. The man isn't young or old, his face aristocratically sharp. With his pale, slightly slanted eyes, he was sure to look dramatic in any lighting. Those clear eyes close slowly and the head tips back once more as a low laugh rumbles from the broad chest. Drugs, it has to be drugs, despite the normal size of his pupils. Around them the building shudders and creaks as the smell of an oncoming storm seeps through the cracks.

 

     “Listen, you can stay here tonight if you want, but I want you out when the rain passes, alright?”

 

     “Mmm,” hums the pale figure, the bow of his dry lips broadening to a smile on his tipped back face. Slowly he lifts a claw-like hand. The long fingers are curled like hooks the joints swollen and red. The fingers flex gingerly and tremble as he plucks a struggling fly from the sweep of his fringe and drops it into his smiling mouth. John's own lips park in astonishment as the pale length of neck works and swallows.

 

     “Alright,” the man sighs agreeably. The building around them shudders again, and the whistling of wind through the cracks rises shrilly.  Rain begins to patter the patchy tin roof, and John retreats.


	2. Chapter 2

     He jerks awake just as the sun is cresting, chest heaving. Now, in the diluted, misty light it could only have been a dream. He spends several minutes stretching as his therapist instructed; rolling his shoulders and pulling his knees to his chest, working the kinks from his back as he bends to try and touch his toes.

     The amble downstairs is equally slow and careful, with one hand on the wall to steady his stumbling. After an eternity he's finally able to sit at the tiny table for two with his tea and beans and toast. He turns his chair slightly and watches out the kitchen window as he chews, pondering the prior night. His sleep had been restless and he had no idea how long he'd lain as rigid as a board, listening to the unfamiliar creaking of the house and the skittering of mice in the walls. He'd grown used to the rushing of London outside Harry's flat and the constant noise of the base in Kandahar.

     Like every night, when he'd finally drifted off he dreampt of his operating theater, up to his wrists in a soldier, running gloved fingers over bowel searching for perforation, shrapnel, and hidden bleeds. Wraith-like, the man watched him from a corner, dust snowing from his collar and bluebottles glinting like gems as they fell from his hair with each subtle movement.

“Get out!” He shouts, worrying about contamination. Irritated with the distraction as he clamps off yet another bleed. The man just hums low and curious, hunching his shoulders like a vulture. John growls as he sutures together the vessels and the nurse suctions.

“I said get out!” Sweat prickles his forhead. “I don't have time for you!” Those pale lips curl into a bow of a smile.

“Oh, John. I think you have all the time in the world,” he croons, pale eyes narowing. In the background he hears shouting, then a concussive blast followed by searing pain. He wakes soaked with sweat and his chest heaving, hand groping at his shoulder to staunch bleeding that long ago stopped.

 

* * *

 

     Too many things didn't make sense; the suit, the dust, let alone how a homeless man had made his way to the shed in the middle of nowhere. He refused to even entertain the delusion by checking and instead set about dealing with the toilet in the living room. By noon the living room smelled of disinfectant and the toilet awaited an uncertain fate by the back door. In lieu of wandering into town for concrete he chooses to place a convient piece of furniture over the hole and tells himself it would definitely be taken care of this week.

  
     Again he sits in the kitchen, looking out over the backyard sipping tea, occasionally rubbing at his aching shoulder and thigh. It crosses his mind that he should eat, but the apple just sat on a table occasionally being nudged out of boredom. No longer preoccupied with maintenance, his mind wanders back to the pale eyes and curls full of dust, the long fingers curled and red and swollen. Resolutely he slaps his palms on the table and grabs his cane, and once again picks his way through the dry brown garden.

 

* * *

 

     The light in the shed is murky but enough to see by, and he shuffles to the back slowly. He's still there.

     The long legs are splayed before him, trails smeared in the dirt from restless shifting, the head tipped back and eyes closed, rasping respirations slipping between the chapped, flaking lips. John steals himself, squaring his shoulders and rhythmically gripping the handle of his cane, trying to pretend that all the blood hadn't drained from his face and his stomach was in free-fall. Either this was real or he had truly gone insane.

  
“I thought I told you to get a move on,” he snips, taking a small step forward.

“Mmm,” the man rumbles, eyes slowly sliding open and tipping forward to look at him. A chill runs down his spine as he remembers the dream, locking eyes with the strange pale man as shrapnel tore through his shoulder. He swallows heavily, working his jaw.

“What's your name?” He clips.

“So testy, Dr. Watson. I take it you didn't sleep well either?” His voice is raspy and deep, dry and unused. One corner of that bowed mouth quirks up into a half smile as John's mouth opens and closes. The silvered eyes narrow and focus. “No, not just a doctor, an army doctor. What banal middle eastern country are we at war with now?”

      John's jaw works again, this time with anger.

“You've been in my home,” he states flatly. His knuckles whiten on the handle of his cane. The strangers lips form a moue of disappointment.

“Don't be dull, doctor. The only tracks in and out of the building are clearly yours. I knew you were a doctor from when you were talking to the estate agent. The military I can see in your tan and your bearing. Now, don't make me repeat myself. Where did you serve? What petty little squabble is this country in now?” John swallows once more.

“Afghanistan, Taliban and all that,” he wheezes, licking his lips as the man raises a swollen joint and traces it along the bottom of his tattered lower lip thoughtfully.

“Who are you?” He finally manages.

“Sherlock,” the man croaks in response, wincing as he shifts his legs once more, accompanied by a faint rusting behind him.

“Sherlock, how long have you been here?”

“Oh, my dear doctor, it feels like it's been years.


	3. Chapter 3

This chapter is extremely short so apologies for anyone reading.  Again, not beta read or Brit-picked.

* * *

 

 

     “Years?” John queries, noting the layer of dust as the man shifts once more, hissing and grimacing. He receives no answer and finds himself stepping forward then crouching before the stranger. His eyes sweep over the shadowed form, lingering with a clinical eye on the red, swollen joints.

     “I expect you'll be wanting to get up off that floor then.”

     “What a brilliant idea, Dr. Watson. I hadn't yet considered that,” the man drawls, fixing the doctor with disdain.

     “Or I could just leave you here,” he bites back. Sherlock gives a hugely put upon sigh and averts his eyes like a petulant child. “So what's the best way to get you out of here?”

     “First, I'm afraid you'll need to dispose of this,” he rumbles, plucking as best he can at a chain around his waist that was previously obscured by the folds of his suit jacket.

     “Shouldn't be a problem,” he says, glancing about the miscellaneous tools. “Just give me a mo.” John replies, straining to his feet. After some squinting and searching he manages to locate some bolt cutters and makes short work of the chain. “Alright then,” he sighs, looking up with a grin to meet wide silvery eyes staring at him with something akin to wonder.

     “You're a strange one, Dr. Watson,” he murmurs.

     “No, quite boring actually,” he says, crouching in front of the stranger. “Won't lie, that's a bit rich coming from some posh bloke I found chained up in a shed wearing a suit,” John retorts with a soft smile. Sherlock frowns at the gentle mocking then sniffs with indignation. John feels a bit concerned that he finds that endearing.

     “This certainly wasn't my own doing.”

     “Whatever you say, Sherlock. If I give you a hand you think you can stand?” The man's pale face scrunches up again with thought.

     “Possibly,” he answers slowly, sounding dubious but lifting his armsstiffly for John to grasp.

     “Alright, on your count,” John hisses tensely, waiting on the gruff voice to count down before hauling on the thin wrists. At the same instant he speculates that the man in deceptively light, he feels the pop and grind of the joints. Sherlock shouts hoarsely.

     “Stop! For the love of God, stop!” John releases him and the man falls back in a whuff of dust, chest heaving. His face has gone even more wan, and John can make out sweat beading on his forehead. Sherlock swallows heavily. “Anymore terrible ideas, doctor?”

     John licks his lips, torn between annoyance and guilt.

     “You allergic to anything?” He asks carefully.

    “Penicillin,” he pants distantly, head tilting back once more.

     “Tell you what. I have some pain meds left over from my shoulder. We'll let those kick in and try again.” Sherlock nods, now only drawing in deep breaths through his nose.

 

 

     Outside he feels he is a world away from the man who calls himself Sherlock. He still in part believes he will come back to an empty shed and be left standing there like a fool with pills and a glass of water. But, when he returns, Sherlock is still there, eyes wide and luminous in the diluted light.

     “They're co-codamol,” he explains when he holds them out in offering.

     “Obvious,” he answers and snatches them up, downing the water even more greedily, fixing John with a hopeful expression.

     “No more until we get you inside. Don't need you to be sick on me.” Sherlock hums his reluctant agreement. They wait in silence until John notices Sherlock's eyes go glassy and a lose some of their focus.

     “Think you're good for another go?” The pale man nods limply and lifts his arms more fluidly that before and they grip eachother. “And up you go,” he counts and the bones grinds again but Sherlock only groans quietly as he rises, then stumbling forward into John's chest. Instinctively his arms go around him. He then finds his face abruptly full of dust and feathers. He sneezes violently while his brain attempts to catch up.

     “Apologies,” the man murmurs, bracing his hands on John's shoulders to right himself.

     “Ta,” John mutters in reply, hands dropping to fist in the soft, gritty down, eyes rising and trailing behind the man to the long ash-grey appendages that droop from his shoulders to the floor like a tattered cloak.

     Again them find themselves in silence and John feels the beginnings of a tremor in his hands as his fingers climb Sherlock's back, any social concepts of intimacy discarded in his shock. There, below the scapula he can already feel a heavy, firm muscle not found in humans, and above there's an opening in the cloth of his jack, and the proof that the feathered train was no garment.

     “Ah,” the man huffs a sour breath against John's ear. “Yes, I meant to warn you, Dr. Watson.”

     “Call me, John,” he babbles, swallowing heavily, mind working furiously. “As lovely as this is, I can't hold you all day.” Numbly he shifts the man to a more comfortable position and together they begin to hobble slowly, and painfully, back to the house.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anybody was curious, I picture his wings looking like a Fox Sparrows.
> 
> http://m8.i.pbase.com/o6/70/728970/1/137070138.ye9YrM3L.SparrowFox121.jpg

With a whuff John managed to settle the man and his...things heavily into a kitchen chair. Another fine mist of dust rose with downy drifting feathers, a rain of the prominent bluebottles fell along with other insects which quickly scurried back into hiding. He looked up to the man's face, expecting to see him in his loose and languid state, exacerbated by the pain killers. Instead the face was taut and the eyes alert behind the glassy sheen. He watched John's face, then flashed about the room, sifting through the clutter, taking in what, John didn't know.  
John worked around the lump in his throat, unwrapping his shaking arms from around the bony man.

“Still alright?” He exhaled shakily, and received a low hum of assent. Those queer pale eyes turned upwards to take in his face, brow wrinkling and lips pursing.

“Why?” Sherlock rumbled, gaze darting across John's face. Startled John's dark eyes widened and his tongue darted to wet his lips. The silence was anything but comfortable.

“More water?”

“Please,” the brunet sighed with relief. Without thought John reached out to pinch the skin on the back of the strange man's hand, watching the skin tent and hold, before turning to fill a glass. Sherlock greedily snatched it from his hands and gulped, water spilling from the corners of his mouth and wetting the lapels of the suit. 

“Seriously, how long have you been out there?” In answer Sherlock merely proffered the glass again. Feeling indulgent once more and gave it back. “No more after that. You need IV fluids.”

Sherlock ignored him, now licking the dripped water from his hands. John sighed and stepped around him as he continued to lap at the edges of the glass and the webbing of his filthy fingers. As quickly as he could he hobbled up the stairs to fish the field kit from under his bed, sitting back to beat the dust from the canvas. He took a deep breath as unzipped the main compartment then sat back and stared straight ahead at the wall.

“This can't possibly be happening,” he chuckled, letting his head drop back to stare at the ceiling. He laughed again without humor. He came to the countryside for the quiet, for the peace, and now he had some public school bloke with what, despite all logic, seemed to be actual wings, sitting in his tiny kitchen. A man who, just 30 minutes ago, had been chained up in a fall down shed eating bugs.

He sucked in a deep shuddering breath, his eyes squeezed tight with water beading in the corners, and let it out tremulously, tipping forward to look down at the IV kit in his hands. Stone-faced and with steady hands he unzipped it, checking the expiration date on the fluids and lines. Still good. His tongue darted out to sweep his lips again and he stood to walk back downstairs, leaving his cane at the side of the bed.

 

* * *

In the kitchen Sherlock is slumped in the chair, head draped over the back in a way that made John's neck ache with sympathy. He couldn't help but linger, in the doorway and stare. Astride the chair back were the great feathery trains, that appeared lifeless in comparison to the body they were attached to. They appeared to be nearly 10ft long and in poor repair, the dove gray feather sticking out at odd angles, the quills bent and occasionally broken. The barbs were tattered and dry, disrupting what should be the smooth edge of the flight feathers into fuzzed chaos. The coverts were even more of a disaster, run through with rusty red and white specks of down. He'd yet to see them move, to tuck into their natural position against their owners back. He began to wonder if they even could. 

He walked as silently as he could, loafers and floorboards creaking slightly. Hesitantly he watched the gentle rise of fall of the broad chest, buttons of the burgundy shirt pulling tight and relaxing, before reaching to rest a hand lightly on his shoulder. 

“Sherlock,” he whispered, jostling him gently. The man groaned, and stiffly lifted his head to blink at the doctor blearily, caught between sleep and the narcotics.

“What?” Those eyes narrowed with clipped petulance.

“I'm going to give you some fluids, but let's get you somewhere more comfortable first,” he said gently, setting his kit down on the table and offering his hands for leverage. The man grumbled but grasps his wrists and tugging himself upright with a hiss. John could see clearly how the wings dragged, their weight pulling at the joints unnaturally. Again they managed to maneuver to the couch with awkward shuffling with Sherlock continuing to stumble and hiss with every other step. With John's assistance he lowered him to the couch on his front, wings draped in a downy quilt. Instantly those queer eyes sinking shut again. He tugged a kitchen chair to the couch side, IV kit open in his lap, and whispered the name of his odd guest, receiving a hum of acknowledgement that was becoming increasingly familiar.

“I'm going to start and IV, alright?” He cautioned, struggling a limp arm from the suit jacket and unbutton the cuff of the sleeve to push it partway up his forearm to make space for the tourniquet. With nostalgic ease he spiked the bag, popped the vein, slid the catheter home and secured it. It'd been so long. He watched the liquid flow into the chamber in a steady stream, the man's desperately thirsty body sucking it in. Carefully and as quietly as possible he removed one of the macabre photos from the wall, hanging the bag. Surely the man must be hungry, John himself realized that he was famished for the first time in recent memory. Time to find them both something to eat.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, sorry about the super short update. :/ Shit still cray IRL.

Just past noon, John woke with a startle at the sound of shattering glass downstairs. Without a second thought he ripped open the bedside drawer, slammed in the magazine, and loaded the chamber.

His heart was racing, and he struggled to hear over his thrumming pulse and ragged breaths. Them another quiet clatter followed by a sound like the swooshing of a broom. Deftly, he cleared the hallway and eeked around the corner in the living room where he barely avoided trampling over the remnants of a shattered frame. Within the line of his sights stood Sherlock.

 

* * *

 

 

On examination, the man's face looked fuller, less sallow, and was flooded with the healthy flush of life. His head was craned downwards on his swan-ish neck and perusing a moleskin. Behind him his useless wings tugged at the confident and casual set of his shoulders. Briefly he looked away and saw that the plate of cheese and crackers he sat out was empty.

 

“Good morning, John. Or should I say afternoon?” He muttered, eyes stillbriskly scanning the contents of the thin book. “I heard no shouting so I trust you slept well.” Then those verdigris eyes shot upwards to lock with his own. The shorter man felt his jaw clench and the grip of his hand on the can rippled with tension, whitening his knuckles.

 

“Yeah, until my egregiously rude guest began destroying my décor.”

 

Sherlock merely snorted with pinched amusement and bent his head back to his study and waved a long, pale hand in a dismissive gesture.

“Hardly yours, and the room is better for it.” John merely sighed and shuffled back to the shattered glass on the floor and gently brushed aside the clear fragments to expose the sepia-tinted photo. It was of an unassuming, pale man with eyes the appeared slick and oily like olives. He stood smiling at the photographer in a lab. Half of his face was consumed by unsightly green lab goggles, and before him was a hopefully deceased rat pinned to the work top.

“Moriarty,” clipped Sherlock.

“I didn't even ask you a question.”

“You think too loud. That is a photo of my captor in his less corrupt days. Still mad as a hatter though.” Then Sherlock abruptly waved his reading material in John's direction. “I'm amazed you've yet to be rid of his belongings.”

“I like them,” he snipped defensively. “TheY make the place feel more homey.” Sherlock snorted, his eyes crinkling and the corners of those shapely lips curled upwards with amusement.

“I'm sure the photos of a stranger half your age in a lab make you feel right at home.” Sherlock contributed caustically, his expressive face twisting into something ugly. John clenched his jaw again, thinning his lips and scowled, angrily crumpling the photo in a tense fist, then went to fetch a dustpan.

 

* * *

 

 

To his surprise it only took the trip to the broom closet and back to cool off, though when he bent over swifly the lack of an offer to help from Sherlock stimulated his ire once more. In fact the matter didn't even seem mto notice his presence, closing the moleskin and selecting a new one with an eager expression. With a sigh he went and binned the contents of the pan and limped his way to the living room. Still being ignored he cleared his throat loudly, tapping his fingers anxiously on his denim covered thighs.

“Sherlock!” He said a bit louder than he intended. The man jumped and his posture straightened before turning towards John. The doctor smiled kindly. “So, tell me about Moriarty.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience. It's another short chapter I'm afraid. I just don't like holding out when I have something I can update.

            John went to the kitchen and prepared tea with a sense of normalcy constantly threatening to bubble into hysteria.  Meanwhile, Sherlock made himself comfortable on the couch, which apparently involved much shuffling and stretching of wings.  By the time he returned the man had seated himself in the center of the sofa, rust and gray wings stretched to sprawl over either arm.  About the room down scuttled into the corners.  He appeared to have acquired a model of a human skull and was turning it over and over in his long, pale fingers.  John noticed his nails were filthy and in dire need of a trim

             He paid John no mind as the older man placed the tea on the coffee table while his guest continued to fidget with his new toy.  The doctor seated himself in an adjacent armchair and blew gently over his mug as Sherlock continued his idle examination.

            “So,” he prompted after an unnecessary amount of silence.  “Moriarty?”

            “Ah,” the man exhales, eyes widening as his lips purse into a surprised ‘o.’  “Apologies, John.”

            He leant forward and rested the skill on the table, wiggling it about till the empty sockets faced John.  He stared back, uncomfortable under their gaze for the first time.

            “Not a problem,” he murmured, sipping his drink, eyes locked with calcified holes.

            “Moriarty was a classmate at Uni,” he started, shuffling for his own cup and sipping.  His nose creased with a grimace at the milky sweetness.  “At a stretch, perhaps we could have been considered friends.  I was reading Chemistry, and he was Biology with a focus in Comparative Anatomy.”  The corner of his mouth curled into a sneering smile that John felt himself returning in light of Sherlock’s dilemma.  “We became mates,” he spat the word,” by proximity alone.  Long hours spent in the lab for myself and him working on his dissections and modeling.”  The man then paused for a long, fortifying sip.  Perhaps he should retrieve the whiskey from the top shelf.  It seemed more appropriate considering the situation.

            Sherlock was silent, appearing to roll the words around in his mouth before he spoke.

            “However, I’d have much preferred to have nothing to do with him.  By graduation his work had taken a turn that ever I found disturbing.” The lanky man sipping his drink again and offered no further.  John took this as permission to go to the kitchen and pour them each a couple fingers of whiskey.  The brunette ignored the offering, preferring instead to continue staring at the opposite wall. 

            “Do I want to know what precisely those experiments were?”  John cautiously posited.  Sherlock then leaned forward to exchange his tea for whiskey.  He sipped it and made another grimace that John was beginning to find endearing.

            “Mmm, the sorts of things that toed the boundaries of ethics and were of questionable scientific value.  Have you ever heard of the Russian dog head experiment?”  John shook his head.

            “Do I really want to?”  His stomach roiled as he took another drink that left his tumbler empty.

            “In the 1940’s, a Russian scientist claimed that he found a way to sustain life in a severed dog head for several hours.  Alert enough to even respond to stimuli.  The whole experiment was videoed.  James was enthralled to discover such possibilities existed.”  Sherlock broke his gaze from the wall to lock eyes with John, before groaning and rolling his shoulders.  The wings shifted and contracted minutely as the man reached up to massage the opposite shoulder and roll his neck.

            “Do you need another pill?”

            “No, it’s just uncomfortable.  It will pass,” he grumbled.  A scrutinizing look at the still grossly swollen joints made John highly doubt that.  He considered getting up to retrieve one for his guest and perhaps himself but the twinge in his leg made him reconsider.

            “So, how did you get from there to here?  Uni must’ve been what, 10 years ago for you?”

            “Fifteen,” the man snapped.  “The answer to your other question is more vague.  When I left uni I did not maintain contact with James.  I spent the next several years engaged in more recreational and bohemian pursuits before taking up work as a consulting detective.  In the course of m work I ran into a mutual acquaintance.  The last he heard, James had lost his doctorate fellowship for unethical experimentation and failure to procure the appropriate licensure.”  He then briskly downed the rest of his own drink.

“So where did you meet him again to wind up here?”

            “That’s what’s so puzzling, John, I don’t remember.”  The man frowned again at the wall.  John took advantage of his distraction to take in the man.  He appeared to have smoothed some of the primaries and to right the bent feathers.  Less fluffy down poked between the silky top layers.  Sherlock’s eyes were certainly brighter now that the pain killer was out of his system, still that strange shifting color and piercingly sharp.  The joints still were cruelly swollen but he had finally lost some of his pallor.  John wondered what he could get the strange man to eat.  He wasn’t certain how comfortable he would be attempting to prepare insects and arachnids.  Briskly, John slapped his palms down on his thighs and curly head jerked to face him.

  “How about we set aside that mystery for a bit and have some dinner?  I can only imagine that you must be starved,” he chirped pleasantly.  “Any requests?”  Sherlock stared at him as if he had suddenly sprouted two heads, and slightly shook his own.


End file.
